Page 20 of Wicked Vile King
We reach the end of the staircase and continue in a two-by-two line that seems to be second nature to my classmates.
"Most of the girls here aren't too bad," she says. "Well, not anymore at least. If they were, they're so doped on sedatives, they can barely talk without drooling or the hole miraculously cured their impulses months ago. But still," she lowers her voice, "stay in your lane, newbie. Some of these bitches would shank you in your sleep if it meant a chance at King Saint."
I grimace. "They can have him."
Her gaze cuts to me. "Just stick by me, okay? There, that can be rule four: stick with me. Well, and stay in your lane. It's like a 2-for-1 at this point."
Our line turns the corner to the left at an intersecting hallway and then branches, one trickling toward what smells like the promise of hot food and the other stopping by an area built into the wall, the front enclosed with thick shatterproof glass. Men and women in black scrubs wait behind stations built into the plexiglass, divided like toll booth workers.
"If you're prescribed meds," she says, "you'll stop here first and get them. Moreaux," she tells a man in black scrubs who sits behind the plexiglass. The man rummages behind the counter as she turns to me. "You on anything?"
I shake my head as she accepts a white cup that's slid across the steel counter to her through a small hole in the shatter-resistant glass. She downs the contents with a matching paper cup of water and raises her tongue, just as the girls at the other stations do.
The man nods and excuses her.
"If you get meds," she says, turning to head across the hallway to what I think is the cafeteria, "don't skip them. You know what happens if you try to avoid the meds. Got it?"
"Got it," I say, as she swings one of the double doors open, and we enter a large dining area where students sit and eat, some girls and some guys, while men dressed in the same black scrubs stand post on either side of the doors and against the walls.
Trixie guides me to a line to get our trays.
"You've got the library on the second floor at the far end of the hall—two rights, then a left—and the boys' dormitory is accessible from the first floor in the matching turret on the west end of campus. But strictly speaking, girls aren't allowed in there and vice versa."
The line moves, and we step forward. I don't want to ask her whatstrictly speakingmeans.
"There's the courtyard down that hall—three lefts and what feels like a mile freaking walk—and the chapel outside, but it's pretty much dead at this point. Only the fresh meat like to pray anyway. There's also an art studio on the first floor, which used to be like an old smoking room or something, and it still smells like it."
She fake-gags and grabs a plastic tray from the stack near the buffet line. I follow her lead.
"They renovated the grounds a couple of years back to add a gym and a heated pool at the back of the building. It's good for burning off calories and frustration, I guess." She shrugs as a cafeteria worker passes her a plate of abnormally pale oatmeal, eggs, and a piece of toast. I accept mine too as she keeps talking. "Nurse's station, administration, and Dr. Cross's office are all on the first floor too."
She continues out into the dining hall and takes a seat at a plastic table with built-in stools to sit at, and I choose a seat across from her. She opens her carton of milk as I fiddle with a very bendable silicone fork thing.
"I hate the forks," she says, eyeing me as I examine the strange utensil. "They say they're to prevent student violence, but they're practically useless." She stabs what may or may not be eggs with her not-a-fork and takes a bite. "Oh and before I forget, all classes are held on the second floor. The third and fourth floors are personnel housing and a bunch of other shit that is off-limits. Oh and the basement, that's off-limits too. Yeah, so like 90% of campus is a no-go, okay?"
"Okay," I say, my stomach grumbling as I take a bite of my stale toast.
"Between you and me," she lowers her voice, "they say the cameras work, but most of them don't, not in the common areas at least. A kid set fire to the server room a few months ago and nuked all of their equipment. One of the girls heard Headmistress mention it was going to be over a hundred grand to replace everything because no one wants to do work up here with all the freaks."
She stabs her eggs again and shovels them into her mouth as I gnaw on my toast like a freaking beaver.
"Oh and don't let anyone tell you how to escape this place. You'll end up in the hole, and they'll be laughing their asses off at your expense. What are we at? Oh yeah, rule five, I think, trust no one."
Students funnel in through the front of the room, and I watch them carefully. There are cliques, just like at every other school I've been to, but you can tell this isn't your standard rich kid academy either, with the personnel in black uniforms standing watch on either end of the dining hall and the soft cutlery.
I finish off my toast.
"What else?" Trixie murmurs, stabbing her maybe-eggs again.
"Oh, there's an old cemetery on campus, but I suggest you don't go there. The necros and the devil worshippers like it too much and so do the lords on occasion."
I cough, nearly choking on nothing, and grab my water to force it down.
"Most of us," she continues, like she didn't just use necros in a sentence, "are pretty standard fucked-up, right—anxiety, depression, bad environments, trauma, all sorts of shit—but Saint and his crew, they're the worst kind of fucked-up. And don't get me started on the necrophiliacs and the kids who think the devil talks to them. They're super creepy but mostly harmless. The lords, though, don't fuck with them."
"The lords?" I ask.
"Mhmm." Trixie nods, taking a swig from her milk carton.
